


Anathema

by ObfuscatedEvanesce



Category: Beyond (Freeform), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: From Gutierrez - Freeform, Holland Roden - Freeform, Jonathan Whitesell - Freeform, M/M, Robert Naylor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObfuscatedEvanesce/pseuds/ObfuscatedEvanesce
Summary: A phantom plagues the daily lives of everyone across the Galaxy. Like a force of nature, it wreaks havoc indiscriminately. Desperate to find answers and to put an end to the phenomena, the High Council sends its best team to rally unconventional allies to their cause. But this threat will take more than a clever plan to overthrow. It requires heartache





	1. Offering

**Author's Note:**

> *Characters/Actors tagged are faceclaims.*
> 
> I was strolling Jonathan Whitesell's Instagram and he has this picture of him as a Sith, and I thought....how cool would it be if his character on Beyond was a Sith? The story got away from me. Not sure how long this spark of inspiration will last, but there's a bunch of cool ass scenes I wanna get to. 
> 
> Idk much about the Star Wars universe, so I'm constantly on the Wookiepedia for this story. It's turning out to be quite the fucking research project lol.

“Everyone off the ship! Off the ship! Move, move, move!”

Pandemonium and flashing red lights. The sirens blare, the sound reverberating in Klein’s chest. Everyone, from the highest ranking generals to mop-clutching frenetics scramble to the closest escape hatch. Swarms to the hangar, Klein makes sure no one is crushed in the stampede, or left behind. He witnesses the fear in mute; the force coils tightly like a snake. Through his spine, it pierces his lunges and ravels around his heart. Every thread of tendon and cord of muscle screams for him to turn tail and leave with the rest of them.

But they are the future, and they are the hope. He cannot abandon a single one.

He spots Akyla in the fray, and somehow, their eyes meet. And she stops. And she makes her way toward him.

In the moment, the force sinks, far below the surface of his heart and into the deepest oblivion. A place so cold and distant, no light can reach. And no light can escape.

He shakes his head, and bounces his thought, “ _No. He’s close. Tiphus and Egano and everyone else needs you_.”

She stutters. Looks toward flow of escapees, then back. There’s a deep scowl on her orange face, wrinkles where cherub cheeks should be.

“ _Please_.”

Her gills flare as she storms off with the rest of them.

He fiddles with the hem of his mud cloak. The fang of his canine scrapes his lip. 

The crowd thins.

“Master Klein, your ship is ready to depart,” a Gnidian soldier says in her native tongue.

“Good. Get every last person in their ships and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Echoes in the void freeze him as they turn to leave. A pounding on frigid glass. Silence in the sound.

The soldier’s feathers bristle one by one. Those still in the hall tick to the clock’s end. And they turn.

A fresh wave of seasoned soldiers run screaming toward sweet safety. Blasters and vibroblades cast aside, the look in their eyes send his heart to his feet. A body careens across the intersection, encased in black lightning. It disintegrates upon impact.

They’re standing there, shell-shocked. As if they are bystanders to a theatrical show. Watchers without consequence. The red cloak. The lightless saber. Soundless steps. There’s a palpable darkness surrounding him. Quiet and calm as a still lake under the night sky.

The closest soldier falls to his knees and begs for his life. Hot tears cascade down his cheeks. 

“Run. Run!” Klein draws his saber; it cracks and spits and howls with bloody light. The saber wails in agony and anger, but Klein reaches out to hit, calms it with a tender touch.

“My lightsaber. Oh good, you found it,” the voice, although disembodied, sounds almost angelic. He holds a hand out, expectantly, “Now return it to me.”

The soldier weeps still. Where everyone else snaps out of the spell and let their survival instincts take over, this soldier’s fear keeps him rooted.

A raised hand curls into a fist. The soldier lifts into the air and his throat is crushed in an instant. The hand holds out again.

“You boarded our ship for this?” Klein’s own anger bubbles up, and it resonates with the lightsaber.

“It’s mine.”

Klein tightens his focus, steadies his stance.

Apathy. The ice wall thickens. Klein can no longer hear the thumping. He should be able to see the figure’s face, but an inexplicable darkness obfuscates his likeness.

Then, the lightning bolt. A soundless instant.

The energy arcs and snaps, invades his body in a frenzied swarm. Sharp burns and bitter cold, his muscles spasm uncontrollably. But Klein welcomes the starving takers with warmth and company. It resonates and swells, and Klein unleashes it in a brilliant burst.

The arc freezes before contact.

The figure touches it, and it bleeds red, shocking Klein where they are connected. His movements are deliberate, masticate, as Klein picks himself up.

“You still fear me. That’s disappointing. There’s so much potential in you.”

Gravity. Klein’s body strains to keep him upright. The saber feels a hundred pounds. He drops to a knee with labored breathing. Every footfall of the figure’s steady advance heightens his panic.

“You are anathema. To the Republic. To the Fourth Order. To life and death itself. Everyone fears you.” He crumples to his hands and knees. Trembling.

“Yet here you are, protecting the lives of flies. It’s never about the flies,” he stops, and with authority, “Stand up.”

But his limbs are tied with anvils and he’s sinking in an ocean. The bottom the blackest blue. A chill runs through his veins and soaks his bones. His eyes sting. He’s suffocating. However, the panic for life’s last breath surges within him. He strains. His muscles surrender. The force is too great. Yet, he manages one foot underneath him, then the other. His body screams. All air escapes his lunges, but the surface is nigh.

He rises, sweaty and wobbling on unsure feet.

“Impressive. There is much I could teach you, Thief.”

Klein says nothing. Just shakily readies his stance again under the immense pressure.

A light tug on the saber, and he whimpers, grips it tightly. Despite reinforcing his grip with all the focus of the Force, the saber retracts and flies into the Anathema’s hand. And with the other, he brings the black lightsaber sighing against Klein’s neck.

 “You passed the first lesson splendidly. Die on your feet. No matter what. Shall we continue? Or does your training end here?”

It’s silent as death, and just as cold.

There it is again. A whisper in the void. A place buried deep in the darkness, but before Klein has a chance to ponder it, a flash, and the Anathema is sent soaring backwards. The gravity lifts in the instant, and in a moment of quick thinking, Klein pulls the lightsaber to him and runs.

Tiphus the Taung, and Egano the Drall. The two people he wanted to see most right now. They’re beckoning madly, and he’s booking it to safety.

The Anathema lands effortlessly, cloak an easy swath of ribbon dancing in the air. It’s a spare few seconds Tiphus buys with rapid-fire blaster shots, and Egano prepares another flash grenade. No effort is made to catch up to them. He doesn’t bother deflecting the shots with his lightsaber. He hurls the grenade, with instant aggression, through a wall.

Just as he rounds the corner.

“Klein.”

The universe quivers. His name vibrates deep in his chest and in his skull, a voice that refuses to be denied. Klein faces the Anathema only to be met with the darkest lightning. The bolt slices through his chest and he hits the far wall with a sickening thump. His body screams as the bolt carves its way through every nerve, across every synapse. His clothes disintegrate where he can’t quell the apathy or the hatred.

“Consider my offer. Think of the fun we’ll have.”

He loses the fight for consciousness, but the war against isolation and loneliness wages on.

Tiphus carries him to safety while Egano caves in the path behind them. Even after they’ve boarded the last craft and hurtle far from the abandoned Tantive-ARK, the impulse to run and keep running stays suspended between them. No one speaks, not even when the T-ARK loses continence and erupts in a fiery blaze. They have jobs to do.

Egano fusses over Klein, inspecting the fresh wounds. He trembles violently on the examination table; Lichtenberg webs out from his chest, inches up the left side of his neck, and crawls down his stomach. Far too cold to the touch. Already, the scar begins to blacken.

Worry rising, he spreads ointment where the tattoo taints Klein’s body. The monitors convey Klein’s extreme statistics; a 7-2C droid administers intravenous medicine. But Egano is there with him in the force, soothing and healing where a droid cannot. The process is long and laborious, and lasts through frequent visits until, finally, Egano sighs in relief.

Akyla, formerly slumped, perks up.

“Is he dead? Can I eat him?”

“No, youngling.  But you can speak your mind – after he is fully rested.”

“I’ll give him a piece of my mind, alright. He’s such a moron.”

Arms folded against the bedside, her gills undulate metronomically. Their breathing synchronize.

Tiphus enters the bay and leans against the frame. Her scowl perpetuate, but there’s a softness that belies her coarseness. The tip of a claw taps against a holstered baster. Egano offers a small smile.

“We’ve been scattered. We didn’t even put up a fight,” she says more to herself than anyone. The sentiment lingers before finally, “We’re set to rendezvous at Weldon. If, the Anathema doesn’t chase us off the planet first.”

Egano’s downcast, ears drooping, “They said it was less of a creature and more an abomination of nature. How right they were. It’s impossible to predict the motives of a thunderstorm,” then his furry face scrunches, epiphanous, “but then, thunderstorms do not make ‘deals’.”

***

“Come on, deal me in. What have you got to lose?” Luke flops down at the table, toothy-grinned and sharp-cheeked, and wiggles until he’s comfortable. No one is happy about his presence.

“How many times we gotta tell ya, this is big boy business. Be a good Urg and fetch us a couple fireballs.” His voice is a lumbering as he is big, bigger than any human and far more muscular. Luke isn’t sparse for those himself, and his welcoming face has certainly gotten him out of many sticky situations, but next to Ullr, he looks helpless and frail. Not that he minds, particularly. His imagination has wandered into forbidden pastures, but his boss needn’t know that.

The bar is filled with backwater aliens, most of which, Luke is unfamiliar with. A certain scent lingers just underneath the smoky haze, a blend of rank and musk and apples of all things. Although bizarre, the dancers capture his attention and leave him doe-eyes and breath taken. None of the same parts, and he couldn’t even guess at some of their genders, but their gentle coaxing gets his heart beating faster, faster. Very few humans, most rugged and battle worn, but there’s one – a light-brown lass – center stage and singing. It rarely happens that such pleasantness exists in these places.

“What distasteful warbling.”

“Is it too much to ask for a proper Plavalagun?”

It rarely happens that a performer is able to stir his stagnant emotions.

“Stellar,” he whispers to himself before Ullr brings his fist crashing onto the table.

“Fireballs, Urg!”

“And get outta my seat,” a Toydarian flits behind him, shoves at him until,

“Okay! Alright. I’ll go, jeez.”

He stumbles out of the seat and through disco smoke. Past the inebriated and the stoned, pimps and bounty hunters and smugglers. They don’t catch his interest; he’s blind to their type now. But the canary in the cage is something different, something new, something special.

He swallows, coughs, then orders from a gruff bartender with meek trepidation. The guy grumbles, eyes squinted.

“I’m with them,” he tosses a thumb over his shoulder and offers an unassuring smile.

He’s not at all worried. He can navigate these situations. Besides, this seat provides a better view of her while he waits.

He can’t stop staring, and the smile plastered on his face makes him look boyish. What luck that he actually knows this one? A smooth, sensual tune with a darkly rich jazzy kick. A song with personality. She notices how into it he is, and though she doesn’t linger long, she’s infected with a sudden rebel flare and free expression.

Luke nonchalantly steals a sip from the couple next him, far too enthralled in their story to notice. He lets the liquid linger on his tongue before downing it in one gulp. The door opens, and Luke senses immediately that this was their guy. Mud hood. Dignified presence, like a priest strolling through the rabble. He’s not the only one; practically everyone can smell it on him. Purity parts the seas.

Their contact joins them at the table. The bartender serves Luke the drinks.

He’s a little clumsy, weaving through the crowd with an awkward tray. Amazingly, not a drop spills, despite crashing into several patrons. As he approaches the table, Luke sets the drinks afire. The warm glow of blue spirits coalesces into humble orange. The heat is comforting.

They receive him offhandedly. No place at the table for him.

“Enjoy your evening,” he bows curtly, then, “I sure will be enjoying mine,” he mumbles to himself.

The kid under the hood takes him aback momentarily. Luke expected the Jedi to be hardened in his years, but he looks barely younger than himself. Curly red mop of hair and big worried eyes. His face is frozen in a permanent scowl. He looks at the fireball before him. Then to Luke.

“No thanks. I don’t drink.”

“Apologies. He’s a dimwit,” Ullr sucks half a cigar in one drag, exhales, then flicks the stub in Luke’s face, “Water for the guest.”

He just grins a sharp grin, nods, and walks away.

The Jedi deals. Luke barely catches a wisp of conversation.

“ _We can’t do this alone. We need your help_.”

Predictable. This won’t work. They’re dealing with someone clearly more adept than he lets on. Why else would the High Council send someone so unassuming? Without backup? Luke tried to convince Ullr to hear them out. Cut a deal with one of the most powerful factions in the galaxy and they’d be set for life. Social suicide he says. No one will ever deal with him again he says. Can’t he see the bigger picture? Of course not, because he’s an idiot with a god complex trying work an angle. Never mind the nice beds and warm foods and –

He crushes the poison into the glass anyway.

Within earshot, he sits alone. He can just make out fragments of conversation under the swell of a different song by watching the Jedi’s lips. A threat to the High Council, a plague against the Undering. A trade of intelligence, a trade of resource. The usual stuff. All the cheating is distracting, though. Ullr carding winning hands, while the Toydarian makes a number of obvious false shuffles. More impressively, how easily the Jedi sees through it all. Cards fly about of their own accord. Out of pockets, out of hands, out of secret places, until they find their way shuffled back into the deck.

Every now and again, the Jedi would drink from his glass. And lock eyes with Luke. Something about the gaze sets fire to his chest. Such intensity in a face so disarming.

Luke imagines all sorts of faces he’d make as he’s doing bad things to him. It’s less a fantasy and more a memory. He downs the fireball, wincing at the bitterness.

All the traffickers are in place. Electronets, stun batons, powder bombs, the whole shebang. Luke generally stays out of the mess, this time especially. As soon as he hears the deal go south and accusations of cheating fly, he finds the quickest path to the quietest corner of the establishment, taking his fireball with him. In an instant, it erupts into a multicolored phantasmagoria. He watches on in awe.

A bright blue firefly in the chaos, he bounces around like a bullet, and lands like a ghost. It’s an effortless, ephemeral dance in the darkness as he darts around the room, redirecting electronets and bouncing blaster shots into the ceiling. Smoke bombs deploy, but the Jedi keeps a pristine air bubble around him. The flash of his lightsaber disarms countless aggressors, but never does he deal a killing stroke.

A quiet moment. That reverse grip. Anticipatory crouch. Luke knows what comes next.

“Sleep,” the Jedi waves a hand, and a wave of people drop. Unsuspecting patrons and ne’er-do-wells alike.

With that, Ullr goes on a rampage, tossing furniture and throwing his weight around like an enraged toddler. As entertaining as that showdown would be, Luke is distracted by a peculiar thumping sound. He presses an ear to the wall, closes his eyes, and concentrates.

Sounds of struggle. Crashing glass. Screaming. The voice sounds… familiar?

He downs the rest of the drink, then weaves through the remaining chaos.

He treads quietly, checks around corners leading into the backrooms. Dark. He can barely see the color of the wall despite the closeness. It seems most everyone has evacuated. Empty room after empty room. Yet, the sound of panic and discord draws him nearer and nearer.

Finally, a bar of yellow light.

Luke steals a rather distasteful statue from the hallway décor.

He peers through the slant in the door.

It’s the singer. She’s fighting off one of the traffickers. Who happens to be facing his direction.

Luke presses his back against the wall. Breathes. Psyches himself up. He doesn’t know what kind of alien that is, but it’s big. Not Ullr big, but big enough that he wishes he hadn’t finished that fireball so early before doing this.

A peek through the crack. It’s back is turned.

Now. Or never.


	2. Memoria

It starts as a feeling, a tiny thought lost in amalgamate. A lingering sentiment like a seed, the core of a black hole, that germinates, spreads like a wild fire and chokes everything out. It crushes everything in its singularity.

“ _I’m sorry_.”

Overpowering. Overwhelming. Klein wakes screaming with the thought on his tongue.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he’s not sure who he’s reaching out to; his soul expands toward an infinite nothing. Tears stain his cheeks, and the scar tattooed to his chest itches and burns.

Tiphus rushes over, Egano right behind her. Immediately, Klein latches onto her and weeps in confusion. Egano cards a paw through his hair.

“Gentle. You were having a nightmare.”

Clarity sets in. The comfort surrounding him grounds him in reality. He wipes his eyes, knit in embarrassed bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you guys.”

“Even the greatest warriors wake up screaming like newborns from time to time,” Tiphus glowers down at him with menacing, vacant eyes. But then, there’s the tiniest tug of a smile on her lips.

“Now that you are awake, I can finally update my journal! There’s so much to capture,” Egano hops off the bed, miniature hood bopping to the diminutive bounce.

“You saved that old thing?” Klein’s incredulous as he clutches his breast. There’s a smile there, overlaying the uncomfortable wince.

“We all saved something important. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be important!”

With that, he’s gone.

Klein finally pays attention to himself, finally notices the black branching web weaving up and down his body. It’s like his heart is pumping fire through the veins. Molten heat drips down his right side where the scar wraps around his chest, and he feels it pulse up his neck.

“We lost seven. You not among them.”

The softness of his finger pads does little to soothe him.

“Seven too many.”

“They died an honorable death. Rejoice that we remain still.”

“To fight another war. Different day, different deaths,” Klein leans back and sighs. The ship’s med bay has no portholes to the stars beyond. An old, rusty, patchwork metal ceiling stares back at him. Claustrophobia sets in. “He came for my lightsaber. That’s all it took for him to board our ship and blow it up.”

“I hear it’s improper for a Knight to wield a red lightsaber anyway.”

“Funny.”

“That they stole.”

“Shocking.”

“From the holiest temple, in the holiest city, of the holiest order that that Knight happens to be part of.”

“It called out to me,” Klein says, sporting a wicked grin.

“The ancients had this thing. They called it, voicemail.”

At that, Klein huffs a chuckle. Tiphus, although monstrous in appearance and battle lust, always finds a way to find a light in dark situations. A gentle soul for a savage creature. Despite having virtually no proficiency in the Force, he often finds wisdom and guidance in her sharp observances. Maybe if he had left it alone, they’d be halfway to Pok-to, ready to defend the Republic supplier from Empire takeover. Sure, he wouldn’t have a weapon, but close combat was never really his strong suit.

He made it this far on one thing alone. Something the High Council saw invaluable.

But what if he hadn’t? Surely the Anathema would find the artifact no matter where it hid. Maybe, this taking prevented an assault on the temple. Maybe, he traded thousands of deaths for merely seven.

“You weren’t immediately vaporized. That’s impressive.”

“Thanks. I’m not a fan of the brand, though. And don’t worry, I won’t entertain any apprenticeship offers.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

Those words play in his mind, long after they’ve landed on the desolate outpost. Weldon, the paradise that never was. It was a planet as diverse as it was rich in natural resources. Warm days and cool nights, lush jungles and rolling planes. Almost any species in the known universe could find home here. And they did. But, a place so welcoming was destined for centuries of conflict and exploitation. To be used and siphoned dry of everything, even its star that made it special, then abandoned for the wasteland it was.

Scavengers pick apart the bare bones of the planet now.

It’s not much of a city, here in the dusty canyons. Feldspar. Usually just a pitstop scarce of life or energy or culture, but now, the fleet brings a hollow hum the place.

Klein looks up, and scowls. Nothing but a swamp of inky blacks, blotted browns, and stained purples blotch out the sky.

“…and we spun right through them you should have seen it! He was like, ‘ _Keep us steady, Kee_ ,’ but the space worms! and the asteroids! and the Fourth Order was closing in and I was like, ‘ _Aye Sir_!’ We were like a-a-a-a pinball with a laser canon! And then, there was this one time…”

Akyla sits atop his shoulders, recounting memories with childish glee as Klein strolls through the ghost town. The sun had long since been extinguished, leaving the planet in a cold slumber. Frigid blue lights, few and far, barely pierce the swallowing darkness. Joyless residents pass unfettered scowls between each other.

Klein lets her ramble uninhibited until they enter a food shop. A hand to her side, and she tones down the excitement to hushed squeals.

The shopkeeper watches them. As Klein peruses medical supplies, as Akyla plays with survival amenities, and as they dote on the impressive array of ration kits, his gaze never leaves them. Akyla drones on, oblivious to the malice sent their way. But Klein hears echoes in the force, soft snatches of sacred times, and sharp shreds of sacrilege. Every shelf a memory, blurry and mute. Out of respect, Klein avoids peering into the Gleam. He can already somewhat piece together the situation. Best to leave quickly.

It’s a struggle to lug the one-hundred fifty-pound ration kit up to check-out. A hulking Gantu, with an absolute flat expression, looks back at their breathless forms. Then to the case. Then to his own, which he carries effortlessly, like one might a lunchbox. Akyla gapes, while Klein gives a deflated wave.

“864 credits,” the shopkeeper grumbles.

The Gantu pays with cash. His footsteps can still be heard after he’s gone.

An awkward bout of tugging and pushing, but the shopkeeper isn’t amused.

“Fooooood. So much food. I call dibs on the Yaki.”

“Tiphus will literally fight you for it,” Klein says, pulling out his purse. He’s got a couple coins worth a thousand lying in there somewhere.

“Tiff can lick my gills. I called dibs and she didn’t.”

“That’ll be 3,234 credits.”

It takes a moment to register. Then another to process. Then another mull over. And another to just, think about.

“What?”

It’s all his shorted brain can muster in four moments.

“I said, ‘That’ll be 3,234 credits’,” The shopkeeper annunciates every unit and every number in the overinflated price tag.

“But it was 800 just a second ago.”

“Pay. Or leave.”

Frustration. More than that, the echoes become harder to ignore. Fragments of the past, phantom threads unrelinquished. Klein considers mind-tricking him into giving it for free, but a mumble, a sudden point of clarity reaches through the Gleam as Klein touches the counter.

“No way, cheapskate. I want my Yaki at a fair and reasonable price.”

A weird air surrounds him. His fingers brush across the counter, soft pads against the blend of alien wood and dingy metal.

“We’ll pay, I guess.”

Akyla flares, “You can’t let that bully win!”

A deep chuckle from the shopkeeper, and Klein all but empties his purse. Coins clink against the counter.

“We need the supplies, Ky. ‘Sides, we get paid today anyway.”

The last one. Klein absentmindedly rotates it between his finger and the surface. His eyes liquid innocence and his lips parted in soft breath, he says, “We’ll call this a donation. Because it’s silly to extort those with the means to royally screw you over.”

He pins the coin to the table with a snap.

“It won’t bring back the people you lost.”

As he turns to leave, he beckons the case to float. It obeys. Akyla scrambles on top of it as it follows Klein out. 

Back into the stagnant Feldspar air.  Between them as well, Akyla sits in irritated silence as Klein makes his rounds. Surplus fuel, spare parts, a music card pack for those long stretches of hyperspace travel. He asks around, trying to figure out their next move. Departure in sixteen hours. Rendezvous with the evacuates at Pok-mau. Reinforce, then retake. Sounds simple enough.  Gives him time to explore a bit. It might cheer Akyla up.

They stash their loot on the ship and empty the rations in with the rest of their stores.

The case is still sturdy enough, so Klein takes it with them, along with a few strips of jerk and a cup of sweet sauce for Akyla. They attract less attention. The world is quiet here, but in the distance, the sky rumbles. As the town fades, the canyon lights up in warm oranges. Little metal trilobites, fleshy incandescence, scuttle about, disappearing into unseen crevices, crawling up the rock walls, and rolling down cliffy terraces. Certain deposits of strange metals glow bright pink, on which the crustaceous creatures nibble.  

Akyla nibbles her own food, but her gills stay tightly closed.

“You should have kicked his butt... That’s what Master would have done.”

He keeps a straight face, even smiles a little.

“I wanted to. But I can’t just go around doing whatever I want.”

“You shouldn’t have given in! A real Jedi doesn’t let others walk over them. He was wrong and you were right and you should march back in there and demand your money back.”

“It’s an unspoken rule – you can never ask for a donation back. That’s just poor taste.”

She’s indignation packaged into a singularity. It’d be cute, if Klein were new to her rage. He’s just glad that she calls him friend, elsewise, she might actually eat him. Her gills don’t budge an inch.

“Are you that mad, or does it taste that bad here?”

“Yes.”

He laughs. Though she’s still steaming, she opens up. Engages with the world more freely. Let’s the sense of wonder and discovery affect her more than the single bad experience. Something about the untouched side of the planet makes it all a little less depressing. Life adapts and builds anew.

Klein finds it unnecessary to shield them from the sheer cold of space; the creatures emit their own heat, and the metals they bask on retain and radiate. The caves are even warmer and even brighter than the outside. Curious arthropods investigate them, find them unassuming, and go about their business. Most small, but Klein observes indications of larger things. Things capable of churning stone and sipping inferno. The heads and tail sections of trilobites lay scattered about the cave floor.

“Eggs would be so annoying. ‘ _Let me study this rock for twenty minutes’_ , ‘ _Were you on my right or my left when we walked in_?’”

“He was busy.”

“Nosing his stupid journal.”

The walls close in. The cave darkens. Klein stoops; his hands press against the ceiling, another against the rough, jagged surface of the wall. Akyla doesn’t feel the claustrophobia, but she does complain about having to walk. She leads the way with a locketlight. It leaves no corner untouched.

All the warmth vanishes the moment the cave expands. The empty space sucks out every sliver of ambient radiance. Thick, impenetrable darkness, but Klein senses the enormity of the place. Where the locket touches, they see fangs of earth bared by the entryway that become pillars to an unknown sky as they move forward. The ground clines upward. It’s like they’re in an amphitheater. Or a prison.

It takes a while, and a sharp hill to reach the other side. It’s high. The entrance they came in is lost in a sea of blackness.

“Ick! Over here, look!”

She’s excited, overly so. There’s a surprising amount of nothing in this cavern, and the area she points to seems especially, spectacularly same. Until closer inspection. A crescent gash in the rock. A single hole burned several inches into the ground. Klein’s brow furrows.

“You know what this means right?” she energetically pats his back as Klein kneels, touches the familiar burn marks with his fingers.

He inhales the power of the universe.

The Gleam bombards his memory with images and sound and feeling, in a snap, in an instant. Persistent fear and hate. A cacophony. Too many lives. Too many regrets to rest on two shoulders. He’d need a minute to meditate. The Gleam here is tangled and intense, but clear as a cloudless sky. It refuses to be ignored. Through it all, one thing stands out: the expression he wears that still haunts Klein to this day. That damned apologetic face.

“Why was he here?”

The Force grows cold with apathy, lined with a shard of hate. Killing intent. He’s felt this before.

Klein is already swinging his body around to cover Akyla before the thread of purple light even fires. For an instant, it’s path lights parts of the cavern they’ve never seen, and Klein’s own lightsaber washes them in blood before flickering off. Akyla yelps.

“Shhh,” softly. The locketlight dies. Darkness swallows them whole.

In the void, Klein’s attention to the Force sharpens. He feels the frustration, confusion, and homicidal desires in waves. The intruder makes no sound as they reposition, but Klein tracks them by the echoes they leave in the Force.

He dodges the next thread. The cave lights up, and the next, he parries. Again, his saber flickers off. A brief pause. The next thread seeks Akyla, who had scampered off to a pillar. The bolt pierces right through, but misses anyway.

A rain of purple light, and Akyla cowers, making herself impossibly small. A quick decision. He flings the unlit lightsaber, sending it spinning toward the sniper, then lifts the ration case and hurtles it toward them as well. The fire ceases as they reposition, but Klein can’t be shaken off. Before the sniper can fire again, he ignites the lightsaber midflight, and it melts the rifle.

This time, the cavern sees hell as the blade returns to him.

“And I just got that blaster. The Jedi I stole that from was very hard to kill, you know.”

She ignites her two lightsabers, both eerie red. It’s a Togruta.

“You followed us?”

“Don’t be so self-centered, boy. I see an opportunity to kill you, I take it. Simple as.”

She launches towards him, spinning dancing blades and the murderous hum of the sabers.

His opening stance is a Makashi-Soresu hybrid. Wrist angled, his blade on target. Simplicity. Efficiency. His defense is minimal bladework and distance control, but her attack is elegance and it is death. She’s hard to predict, her sweeping blows and slashes a flurry of light and sound. The heat of her saber press into his skin as they glide past his face.

She performs a Mou Kei sweep, but Klein stabs his saber into the ground, stopping her right blade. The left comes millimeters from decapitating him, but it hovers there, quivering in anticipation.

He stopped it with the force.

“Why are you here? What interest does the Empire have with a ghost planet?”

“You’re in no position to be demanding answers.”

But something clicks, and Klein knows without a doubt that he’s right.

Sometimes, things are just a grand and inconvenient coincidence. Maybe if they had spent five extra minutes in the music shop, they would have missed each other. Or maybe, despite coming here with a purpose, she saw Republic ships landing and decided to surveil them instead. And here they are. Locked in combat. They were never friends, but they were old allies. They went on missions together as Padawans. They looked out for each other, as their Masters looked out for them.

Klein unleashes a powerful Force blast, sending her far across the cavern. But, the empty space gives her plenty of time to recover. She spins back on balance, scarring a stalagmite before colliding with it.

 “ _Akyla. Find the case and wait for me. We need to go_.”

No answer, but Klein trusts she knows what to do.

“You’re looking for the Crucifix. You’ll never find it. The Empire isn’t worthy of such a weapon.”

She dusts her robes of and chuckles something dark and foreboding.

“You and your siblings have always been a scourge. Do the Empire a favor and die!” She unleashes a torrent of electricity, swarming and angry, bright flashing blue. This lightning, however, is easier to appease. Easier to quiet into a content hum. A tingle shoots down the length of his scar.

Then, a question. One he hadn’t thought before. How had the Anathema known his name? Unlike the twins, he wasn’t renowned throughout the galaxy. His escapades didn’t send his name rippling through the universe, didn’t inspire faith in the Republic. He’s just a Knight trying his best to fulfill his duty.

His own frustration and anger wells up within him. A lightning storm brews between them and the sniper is about to face the brunt.

“Ick!” her voice bounces off the walls, but Klein knows her echoes in the Gleam well.

The lightning ball blasts her screaming out of the cavern, and he caves in the entrance after her. Quickly, they find a different exit, but Klein stops at the jagged jaw.

“We need to go go go! I~ck!” She pulls at his cloak frantically, but something in his voice and demeanor, a seething grudge, a low warning, startles her.

“Wait.”

Klein sucks in a deep breath. Silences his racing mind. Meditates.

The cavern trembles. Begs. But Klein can’t be stopped, not now. 

His lips tremble and tears threaten to streak down his face. As much as he wanted to find out what happened here, he couldn’t let the Empire find what they were looking for. Not because it would tip the war in their favor. That was a real possibility. But because the thought of the Emperor perverting such a precious artifact enrages him blind.

In some forgotten cave on a backwater planet, he buries the memory of his brother.


	3. Home

Immediate regret in a shattered statue.

He doesn’t regret the decision per se; he regrets not finding something bigger to hit it with. Maybe go for the head next time, that always seems to work. With all his feeble human strength, he drove the porcelain bust into the thick of its hide. Bark? The thing is built like a tree and smells like one too, and in the fullness of view, Luke now realizes that it has actual blades sprouting from its arms and legs and its spinal column, all the way down to the tip of its tail. Anyway, plan bash-and-dash was a bust. Now, he stands wide-eyed and smiles nervously as the creature glares at him.

“…Hi.”

The tree monster whips its tail and it smashes into Luke’s chest, crushing him against the wall. The singer screams, but he barely registers it. His back aches and his chest stings and he almost blacks out immediately from banging his head against the wall, but he fights the fuzzy edges of his vision as he grasps for breath.

The singer assaults the creature in the face with everything she gets a hold of. A serving platter. Champagne bottles. A chair. Her feet. Her hands. The creature lets out an avian screech, then garbles something in its own language as it stalks her, all fours, across the room.

Luke crumples to the floor. His limbs ache and he’s pretty sure he’s hemorrhaging from the inside. But, he’s blind to the blood and the bruises and he can’t even feel his cracked ribs. He stumbles to his feet and charges.

He ends up riding the bladed lizard as it thrashes about the room. It has a tough time dislodging him from its dorsal, and Luke can’t help but think how much _fun_ this would be if it were a rodeo and the prospects of dying in some garbage bar in the middle of nowhere weren’t a real possibility.

Speaking of, he’s probably going to bleed out anyway. The spinal blades cut into his skin and rip his shirt, and he’s been slammed against nearly every surface in the room. His grip slips, and finally, the creature tosses him against the wall, and pins him to it, tail blades digging into the soft wood.

This is it. He’s going to be bisected. He can already feel the burn of skin on skin contact as the tail drags across his body. The wall shudders and groans as it’s being ripped like cardboard.

But.

The blades tremble before his flesh, eager to tear into him, fighting against an unseen force. 

Luke’s throat is dry and sore. The lump he swallows goes down painfully. He hazards a peek. From this close, they almost seem to be made of metal.

Confused, he locks eyes with the singer. She looks just as thrown as he and the monster.

The door pushes open, and in walks the Jedi. Not casual, not carefree, but as if he had all the time in the world. As if he were just a concerned neighbor checking in on the disturbance.

Always with that perplexed look. Green eyes and fire brows perpetually furrowed. 

With a flourish of his fingers, the Jedi puts the tree serpent to sleep.

The singer rushes to his side, making such a fuss over his wounds, and her voice is so high and shrill, and his head is still foggy from the encounter that none of it makes any sense. He’s no longer numb; every sensation comes rushing in at once, threatening his wobbly feet. He refuses to black out. He welcomes the inferno that engulfs him. Those warm eyes take him to summers back on his home planet. Bright days, blue skies. Rolling breezes over the greenest hills. Grounded. Love and pain. It’s a genuine smile he sends the Jedi’s way.

“Not a space cow,” he croaks. The Jedi’s features soften. Luke succumbs to his injuries.

*

Land’s Edge. Where the sun never rises and the stars always shine. A place so far above the sea, not single whisper of waves reaches. The horizon extends into an eternal oblivion. A star returns to the sky. In the moment, Luke’s crushing insignificance paralyzes him.

A memory that plays in his dreams. A dream that never ends. He stands there at Land’s Edge long after. Forever and ever, waiting for the sun to set fire to the sky. But the darkness is infinite.

*

Luke wakes shirtless and mummified. His entire body aches, but the pain is surprisingly dull. All things considered, he feels pretty good. Getting out of bed is an exercise on its own, and he finds his muscles just don’t agree with him yet. Still, he enacts the labor because there’s little else more exacerbating than missing an opportunity to escape one’s captors.

“Stop moving.”

That’s right. He didn’t even notice the Jedi leaning against the door. Arms folded. Eyes closed. The singer is nowhere to be found, shame. She seemed like a nice lady.

Luke limps across the fallen monster, and searches for a weapon, a communicator, some money, keys to a spaceship, a shirt, anything that might be helpful when he finally gets out of here. More than that, pangs of uncertainty, guilt, and a sliver of anger run through his veins, propels him to keep moving. Just being in the Jedi’s presence, alone… Even though he’s not watching him, Luke swelters under the heat of his gaze.

“Luke.”

At that, he freezes. He remembers that tone well. He used it when Luke became ill off stolen wine at his grandparents’ birthday party. He used it when Luke accidentally set fire to the ritual crop right before Lunar Rhondo. And he used it when Luke shattered his humerus while trying to tame a Trino.

And it’s the tone he used when, well…

The Jedi looks directly at him now, expectant.

“Alright, alright. Work your mojo. I’ll sit here and be bored in the meantime.”

He grunts as he melts back into the bed; every muscle fiber sighs and thanks him for it. It’s weird and it’s itchy, the feeling of his flesh stitching together. His insides gurgle and churn, and it about makes him jump out of his skin. His bones pop, actually snap into place, and despite having been through this before, it startles him still. But, like that night he spent weeping away his regrets, it’s nice to be enveloped by the Jedi’s warmth and well-wishes.

“You’re definitely better at this,” he says absently, “All that training musta done you well.”

The Jedi doesn’t respond. Just stands there with his arms crossed.

“You probably _could_ do it while I ransack the place. Unless a certain someone’s, _me_ , of course, unless… my state of undress happens to be distracting.”

Any normal person wouldn’t see a single crack in the Jedi’s demeanor, but Luke’s sight is keen to his subtlety.  Slight adjustment in his jaw. The tiniest twitch of the ears.

“Aw, he’s adorable when he’s embarrassed.”

“Don’t flirt with me. You poisoned me.”

Luke scoffs, wide-smiled, “What, you’re upset about that?” Again, he stands, easier this time. With a devilish grin, Luke reaches out. A bond between them, Destiny’s knot. He feels it on an instinctual level, though he can’t quite comprehend. With aggression, with power, and with command, he pulls the Jedi towards him.

They’re close. The Jedi’s eyes are far too innocent for the things he’s seen. For the things he’s done. In this space, it truly is just the two of them. Luke’s little secret. His only comfort.

“I didn’t think it’d matter. Nothing phases you.” Luke finds the Jedi’s hips, slender and lean in his strong hands. No effort, kissing the Jedi’s button nose. Just a peck. To see him enrapt and unwound, melt beneath the kneading of his fingers.

“Still not okay,” the Jedi traces the distal end of Luke’s forearm, just the space below his wrists.  

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Mr. Jedi _Master_.” Smiles and the nose-nudges can’t hide the spite between Luke’s words, not from this Jedi. “Your exploits make talk around these parts.”

“You resent me.”

His eyes are closed. Luke wishes he could get lost in those forests, but instead, he stares at his lips, slightly parted. If it weren’t for the pulse through the pads of his fingers, Luke would worry that he wasn’t even breathing. Always so calm and effortless, yet here Luke is, trying to swallow his heart down his throat. 

“I _miss_ you.”

He goes for it.

He can’t.

It should be effortless, but it’s not. He’s right there, waiting and willing. He isn’t going anywhere, not yet at least. Why is this so hard?

The Jedi tilts his chin and closes the distance. It’s quick. It’s chaste. It lasts a lifetime. To be reunited for a moment, forever. Bright skies, cool breeze. Lush grass at his back.

Dark room, stale air. The feel of lips pressed against his a fresh memory. He’s.

Surprised.

But he feels much better, even more so than before he received a thrashing. He has so much energy, and his limber limbs could carry him galaxies away without tiring. Warmth blossoms beneath his chest. He grasps the hem of his pants, unsure of what else to do with them.

“Guess I was wrong. You can’t be distracted. What else is new?”

The Jedi unlatches his cloak, and with a flourish, wraps it around Luke’s shoulders.

“The High Council wants to eradicate all Force sensitives.”

Luke’s smile fades. An uneasy feeling palpitates within him.

“A-all? Like, in the Galaxy?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere.”

The pit deepens. Something within him trembles. The Jedi sits on the corner of the bed.

“Isn’t the High Council a bunch of super Jedi? Who the fuck would suggest such a dumb idea?!”

“The Grandmaster himself,” the Jedi sighs, staring at the door expectantly, “Says it’s the best way to prevent another Sith uprising.”

Fear creeps up his spine and claws at his back. His eyes sting, but he chokes back the urge. He sits beside the Jedi, exhaling heated breath as he layers his head on that curling blaze.

“Klaus. Where’s the singer?”

It’s a lazy heat between them. Luke already knows the answer.

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you here?”

“…to-to…”

Luke breathes in deeply, shuts his eyes. Despite all the unbecoming scents that cling to the Jedi, he still smells like home.

*

“We’ve taken Corelia, but Darth Sephorus still holds the capital.”

The suit of armor, white, gold, and silver, stares at the bright beautiful world below. Tame silence, the ship’s hum supplies ambience to the bridge’s goings-on. Wonderfully serene. The sort of calm that allows Claudia to immerse herself in the Force. If she listens closely, she can hear the anguish and distress of the troops on the ground. She lends them courage, sharpness of thought, and the vitality to press forward. It’s the best she can do. If she listens closely, she can’t hear a thing from the Armor beside her. The walls are too thick to penetrate. It’s a hollow presence.

“Then we have not taken Corelia,” the Armor rings, a painful mix of piercing high frequency, thunderous bellows, and rolling, grumbling, fray. “Prepare to land. We shall expedite this excursion.”

Claudia’s first inclination is protest. The Grandmaster, Fleet Admiral, and General of the Army needn’t be concerned with a task their Stormtroopers and Jedi officers could handle on their own. After a moment’s thought, she realizes that the best battles end swiftly. Fewer casualties here, stronger army going forward. If they are to succeed in retaking Coruscant, they’ll need every ounce of strength they can muster.

“As you wish.”

Operation: Desert Well has gone smoothly thus far, all thanks to the Grandmaster’s wisdom and sharp activism. She’ll follow this visionary to the brave new world. No questions asked.

They pass through the planet’s atmosphere unchallenged; the shields had gone down hours ago. Beautiful junglescapes, enormous lakes, and urban patches. The aftermaths of blazing battles bruise the landscape. True to word, the city of Coronet stands, protected by a powerful, shimmering shield. Empire troops open fire from behind their protection. All assaults on it prove futile. Sith officers fortify their defenses, engage Jedi in light dances, and terrorize Stormtroopers, but they press on, probing the shield for any weaknesses.

An immense shadow casts over the city. Night falls under the _Hallowed Sky._

The Armor’s presence sends ripples of uncertainty throughout the battlefield as they descend the ramp. Fragile morale, thin threads of ice, threatening to snap. Reverberous metallic clangs drown Claudia’s footsteps. Rising panic forces fire in their direction, but they’re as nonplussed as strolling through a light rain.

Blaster bolts fizzle against the Armor. All of them.

At the vanguard, the Armor gives the signal to cease fire. _Every_ one does. 

When it speaks, the whole world hears,

“Surrender. Only Sepherous need face Judgement.”

Uncertainty. Guns and cannons flag half-mast. They take it as the go-ahead.

Up close, the shield is as fluid as syrup, and stitched with a static blue sheen. There’s a light hum. Nothing audible, but it’s a visceral buzz, felt only in the surest minds. Something easily swept away in a sea of white noise.  The Armor poses as if holding a door for Claudia. The shield solidifies in protest. Pressure mounts. In perfect congruence, it cracks, peels back electric webs as it splits open.

Fresh open space.

“After you, Lady Commandant.”

Claudia smiles, a slight nod, “Thank you.”

She steps through.

They are met with a squad of four officers, all brandishing lightsabers. The dark side has pulled them within their depths, and Claudia can hear their hearts call out from beyond, begging for reprieve. Two wear masks underneath their battle gear. The other two display beautiful faces perverted by their utter immersion. Blood gold eyes meet amber greens.

“The empire cows before no one. Not even you, Grandmaster,” the foremost officer says.

The rearmost officer speaks gently, voice almost a lullaby, yet drips with all searing maleficence, “Those that do,” he raises a hand, gathering all his focus at his fingertips, “are unfit to serve the emperor.”

A breathless instant. A brilliant flash. By the time the thunder cracks, the officer has sent his troops through a season in hell. Smoldering burns and lifeless bodies plague the lightning path. The soldiers panic as the officer prepares another attack.

“Stop!” Claudia commands, staying the Sith’s hand. Surprise as he’s forced around, the Sith struggles tooth and nail against her will. But she is just too strong.

“I commend your loyalty,” the Armor rings out as the other three engage Claudia. One strikes it head on, but her lightsaber evanesces immediately upon contact. The other two viscously hunt Claudia, striking quickly and with aggression, but she dodges around the Armor, extinguishing their blades as well. “But this treachery has no place in the New Rebuplic”

The Armor its saber. Hilt thick and heavily reinforced, it emits a blade reminiscent of old times. Long, double edged, and tapered at the tip. It shrugs off the three Sith a casual hand motion. But the offender, it beckons over.

His feet move of their own. He’s powerless to stop what is to come.

“Your judgement: suffer.”

The Sith kneels before the blade trained on his forehead. Braces himself for the plunge, but it never comes. Instead, the Armor releases it, and it floats there, obedient to one master. Shackled in place. The blade creeps forward nanometer by nanometer.

They’re long gone before the first wave of screams.

Behind enemy lines, they march unchallenged. Surrounded. The city Coronet lies before them a lifeless hollow. Towers pierce the sky like rose thorns, mountains against mountains. In patches, buildings crop around the bases, irregular like barnacles, thick as moss. A strong breeze from the east billows her brushstroke hair, salt scent reminding her of simpler times. Times when her world was but a tiny village, a speck on a grassy rock hurtling through space. Where the company she kept were few, but inextricably close. Where life seemed full. Her world is bigger now. More vacant. More exciting, but void things. Each victory, it seems, brings her further from fruition. The war wages on.

*

“What mischief have you two been up to?”

Egano scribbles in his journal as the dusty duo return dirty and exhausted. Akyla mumbles through puffed cheeks,

“Klein got his butt kicked by Hecati again.”

“Wh – that is so not what happened.”

“Hecati? What is she doing out here?”

“I dunno, she had you on the ropes there for a minute.”

“I don’t –,” Klein begins, but lets her finish, “I saved you, didn’t I? Cut me some slack,” he says patting her head.

“So I take it you didn’t kill her,” he says without looking up from the pages, “And you’re alive well enough.”

“Yeah…,” Klein’s mood depresses. Thinking about it brings out sour memories. She never considered him friend, but at the very least, he admired her. What could he have done differently? He was always trying to…

“I guess she’s still on the fence about trying to end me.”

“Didn’t look that way to me.”

He wants to laugh at the quip, but the smile is hard to crack.

“Go shower so you can stop holding your breath,” Klein says softly, and Akyla nods, marching off.

He sighs deeply, then, “We found something in those caves. A clue.”

Egano’s ears perk. It’s a smug smile that graces his face.

“Memories, you mean. You shouldn’t look so perplexed. He left you something to remember him by.”

“Yeah, me and every other Force sensitive in the galaxy. I just wish…”

With love, Egano presses, “Finish the thought, Klein.”

“I just wish this war would end. I wish I could stop losing friends to the dark side. And, I wish I could keep up with him. Maybe then we wouldn’t need to play keep away with the things he left behind.”

With gentle care, Egano sets down his pen with a soft click. He gives Klein his full attention.

“The universe is a vast and unimaginable place, full of life, excitement, _wonder_. It is as diverse as it is infinite. Of physiognomy, and of thought. It is unfortunate, but conflict is as ingrained in us as love, companionship, trust, and betrayal. Life, death. The best we can do is defend what we believe in. That is what your brother did. That is what you must do.”


	4. Fragment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. I wanted to get something out for May 4th, so here it is! Happy Star Wars day.

His thoughts always lead back here. Green shivering sea above, still and bright blue sky below. He floats, eyes closed, on the horizon. The second sun inches over the planet’s edge, too tired to chase its brother across the blue. It’s a familiar place, where life is simple. Fresh air. Salt faint on the breeze. Wide open space and an unlimited horizon. A safe place, free from the trappings of his wandering mind.

He’s hardly breathing. He’s statuesque.

There’s a thousand voices in his head shouting all at once, threaded too tightly. He can’t unwind it. Screaming. Shouting. Whispering. Talking. Echoes. All at once, all at once. The fabric of their sound weaves into the calm he’s constructed. Every fiber vibrates with their call. Then, he hears it – the singular thread to unravel it all.

Melting rock.

He latches on to that. Focuses it down. Drowns out everything else.  A strike that makes the earth cry out. The stab that releases a wail of misery.

He sees his brother there, in the darkness of the cave, here in the brightness of daylight, and it’s always the same stupid face. Except now, it’s illuminated by a golden cross, warm as evening rays dripping off tall trees.

Eye to eye. After all this time. Staring straight into his soul. Judgement.

**_Klein_ **

The universe speaks. His whole world trembles.

Beneath the call, the voices clarify into a bloodless massacre. Hundreds of souls, culled by the blade reach, out to him. Whispering. Their death knells coalesce into an impenetrable silence.

“ _I’WImhGa aI deYstooLtduro’traiorwedy. ayvaoyu fdmero?! oom nymseotue!_ r.”

The reality he’s created splits under the pressure, unbearable and slow.  Hairline fractures in the seams. A fragile world dashed by creeping black streaks. He sees his brother through broken glass. His heart shatters.

“Why’d you do it?!” he screams.

Black, cold, empty space peeks through the cracks. The blue, the green, the warmest gold all infected. Torn asunder, wider and wider. Electricity arcs across his body. His anger feeds the frenzy snakes.

**_Life. Is Apathy. Find No Meaning In It._ **

The cracks reach out to him, surround him. Shards drift away like ice in the ocean. His brother barely keeps it together; his edges disintegrate into fine dust. Somehow, he seems so far away. It sharpens the vacuous cold, infinite and lonely.

“That’s a poor excuse to be so cruel.”

The kindness of that broken smile. Boyish. The kind that appears when Klein has missed something self-evident. His chest hurts, and his body tingles. Lightning licks do not soothe, rather fuel the indignation building up inside. He can’t stand being looked down on, even now, in his own realm.

 ** _More Have Died, In Mercy_**.  

Klein reaches out to him. Something sinks within himself, envelopes him in cold nothing. The anger is gone. He has no need of it now.

“That’s why people hate you. Now I have to deal with it.”

A sharp rise. With the way reality splits around him, the way his own lightning slices the fabric, carves out the abyss, Klein fails to notice that he, himself is falling apart. Pieces of him drift away, but float in his orbit like a reluctant friend. Pushed away. Wanting to stay. But the consequences have changed.

 ** _Klein_** – “I love you”.

The dream falls apart. Vaguely, he hears yelling, but the sound is being drowned out by the boom of thunder, the crack of lightning. It’s a light show, frenzied and dangerous and greedy for attention. Thick, curling, catastrophic bolts dissipate into wisping threads. As soon as he wakes up, everything stops.

He drops to the floor. There’s an unsettling silence in the air. A presence gone, where before it went unnoticed. Only in it’s absence does he realize it was there.

“Oh no, oh no,” Egano says, looking around the room. His fur stands on end in the charged air as he checks the circuitry behind panels in the walls, fumbling around in the darkness.

“We are D.I.S,” Tiphus growls, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway, “Whole ship is fried.”

Klein opens his mouth to speak, but Akyla shouts, “I can fix it!” and scurries off to the engine bay. Guilt crawls up his back and perches on his shoulder.

“She’s afraid of you.” It’s an observation and a judgement. “What happened.” It’s a demand, not a question.

“I lost it.” Klein can’t explain it. It seems so childish, looking at it in a clear state of mind. He couldn’t even sort the Gleam properly without letting his feelings get in the way. But, he’ll never be afforded closure. That’s a reality he’ll just have to accept.

“The dark side is strong in you. As a Jedi, you _must_ find balance within yourself, or you’ll be consumed by it.”

He’s not a fan of being lectured. He should know this; he’s heard it a million times already. But here they are, flotsam in space, completely at the mercy of universal seas. And the way their echoes shape, tired and slightly afraid, as if HE were anything to be afraid of, and the disappointment. It all gets to him in a way he can’t explain, would rather ignore. They’re a team. They’re supposed to trust and protect one another. How can they when he’s such an inconsistency?

He picks himself up, focuses his distress in the palm of his hand. A lightning ball lights up the room, quiet but for the imperceptible, high pitched wail.

“I’m going to contact LC on the com, see if that still works,” he says, tiptoeing around Tiphus, “And, yeah, I’ll work on it.”

He’s stopped, large hand on his shoulder.

“We all have scars. Don’t lose to your past.”

A warning more than a threat. But a threat all the same.

Klein leaves the training chamber in a dismal mood. He hears Akyla managing the damage as he slinks off to his room – more of a supply closet than anything. The clink of metal banging, hot wire zapping, and ecstatic cursing echo down the hall. Somehow it all seems so lonely. 

It’s stuffy. Full of all kinds of rusted old junk, most of which he doesn’t recognize. A hodgepodge of three defunct droids sit in a corner surrounded by their own innards and a pile of wires and screws. He rummages through a shelf and two bins before finally finding the communication device in a drawer. He crawls into the hammock strung across the closet, above all the rubble, and relaxes. Something familiar. A feeling of secrecy and safety. Cozy, not claustrophobic. Still, as he caresses the device in his hands, there, a nervousness. The moment before the leap.

He presses a button. The machine whirrs to life.  

His eyes are glassy, and he’s hit with immediate regret. It’s been awhile, like always. Strictly business. He’s never sure if a quick check-in is even appropriate anymore. So, he waits for a good reason to call, rare as they are. Considering the scale of things lately, this probably doesn’t make the cut. But it’s too late now to reconsider. The hologram of her projects from the device.


End file.
